


Almost Paradise

by Buggirl



Series: May to September [13]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Denial of Feelings, F/M, growing relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 13:46:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9823241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buggirl/pseuds/Buggirl
Summary: Molly and MacCready are trying to wing their growing attraction, not realising that they are slowly falling for each other.





	

**Author's Note:**

> "So paint your solace  
> And hold what’s honest  
> Glory doesn’t come for those who wait"  
> ~ Fading, Vallis Alps
> 
> Thankyou to Mauvaise-reputation on tumblr for [this artwork](https://68.media.tumblr.com/1bff87b6dbfa181820b8826b7b1e5b1c/tumblr_olmari6iI51r328o5o1_540.png) that inspired this mini-fic!

At twilight, in Diamond City, people walk from their jobs to their homes; exhaustion marks their dusty, lined faces. MacCready blows a plume of cigarette smoke into the warm early evening air and glances up as the buzz of the Valentine’s Detective Agency sign distracts him from his thoughts. He digs a heel into the ground and rubs his face with a free hand. Today is the eve of what would have been Lucy’s twenty-fourth birthday, and everything reminds him of her. The warm summer glow in the sky, cooking smells emanating from laneways, and the heart on the whining neon sign above him.

He rubs the heel of his palm against his chin and takes another drag of his cigarette, breathing in the astringent tobacco flavour he’s been craving all day. Five days ago, Winlock and Barnes received their comeuppance at the end of his sniper rifle and the butt of Molly Gould’s shotgun. That particular group of Gunners silenced forever. For a moment, he was happy, and for the next four days, the good General had him watch her back. However, from the moment they left the interchange, her mood was brusque and disagreeable. Her temperament wore him down and now he finds he’s restless and in need of a drink, for more cigarettes and for a fuck if he can get it. He can’t blame her for his own mood, given today, given that he’s still anticipating an update on Duncan’s condition. He waits outside, not interested in the meat of Molly’s business with the synth detective. He knows it’s about her son and today is not the day he feels conducive to hearing about anyone else’s family but his own.

The neon sign’s discordant hum becomes jarring and he deliberates leaving the doorstep. He takes a last drag and drops the butt on the ground. Before he has a chance to disappear, Molly opens the door, a large pack draped over shoulder; one she didn’t have before she entered. He sighs and rolls his eyes; _more junk, great._ She returns his gesture with a small scowl, but says nothing. He knew what he was walking into, her terms were precise, unyielding. Carry her stuff, point, shoot, watch her back, watch out for danger. Simple, until it wasn’t. Simple, until he ended up with more than just his arms around her.

Molly’s face still has a smear of mud under her eye from earlier and she throws him ‘don’t ask’ look and grunts. He follows without word. Tonight they’ll stay at the Dugout Inn and he prays that Vadim doesn’t give them _that_ room. Not tonight.

They eat and drink without ceremony, like two strangers who happened to share the same grubby table. Molly’s disposition brightens with each mouthful, a shot of whiskey and friendly banter with Yefim. It’s though something has lifted from her. He wishes he felt the same. They head to their room, tired, wilting from the rigors of travel and MacCready knows he’s being more quiet than usual. It doesn’t take long for the Boss to notice. Thank fuck that this room is the opposite end of the corridor from the one he once shared with Lucy, he’d rather sleep in the gutter outside the inn than stay in that room again.

Molly lets the pack drop as they enter. The door closes with a slam behind them. She gives a loud sigh. “Alright, MacCready, what’s up?”

“What do you mean?” He answers with a defensive tone, and notices her bristle at the rise in his voice.

“Your face looks like a--” She gives a small, unexpected snort of a laugh before continuing. “Like a slapped arse.”

He screws up his nose and stares at her as though she’s speaking a different language. “A what?”

She starts to laugh again. “Like a slapped arse.” She shakes her head. “Sorry, that’s something an old Scottish colleague of mine used to say-- it means you look miserable.”

MacCready leans his rifle and pack against the wall; removes his belt, pouch and ammo along with his duster, dropping them with a loud clatter on the floor. He sits heavily down on the small couch in the room and reaches for the bottle of whiskey she’d placed on the coffee table only moments before. “Maybe I am,” he says, his answer coming out harsher than he intended.

Molly bows and shakes her head disapprovingly as he lights another cigarette. He uncaps the whiskey bottle and takes a large swig.

“Fine,” she says in a terse manner, before turning her back to him to undress.

He watches her. She follows a predictable order of events. First, the hat, she positions it carefully on the chair near the bed, her tapered fingers brush over its worn felt surface, then her jacket placed over the back of the same chair. Her boots next, placed together at the end of the bed, ordered, precisely arranged. His eyes drink in the flesh of her waist as she undoes her pants and slides them over her legs, revealing the creamy freckle dappled flesh beneath. He takes another swig from the bottle; his eyes continue to wash over her and for the interim, he’s forgotten what day it is, forgotten the last five, forgotten everything for this indulgence. She’s down to her shirt, socks and underwear before she pads into the bathroom. He hears splashing and gurgling. Another routine he’s become used to. She’ll emerge and smell of soap and peppermint, he likes it and closes his eyes waiting for the scent to descend. He smiles when he hears her return and just as he expects the aroma hits him, it’s a comforting smell, like whiskey or cigarettes, but different.

Molly sits on the couch next to him. “Really, MacCready, tell me, what’s the matter?”

He opens his eyes. The smear of dirt is gone from her face and her lips glisten. “You first.”

She shakes her head. “Me? First?” She adjusts her position on the couch and pulls her legs up under her.  “What?”

He takes in a deep breath. “Since we left the Mass Pike Interchange, you’ve been less than cheerful yourself. Until now that is.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip. “I--I’m not used to killing,” she says.

It’s his turn to snort a laugh. “You did that with ease. And I still wouldn’t have believed you about Kellogg if I hadn’t seen you with my own eyes when we faced Winlock and Barnes.”

“Huh. Really? You take me into a fight thinking I’m useless and now you think I’m a natural? At killing?” She furrows her brow and frowns, shifts again, this time drawing her legs closer.

“No, not what I meant, I think you perfectly capable to help me. You’re not a natural killer, but you did what needed doing. I think that’s natural. Gun skills still need work.” He elbows her in the side, attempting to take the edge off a possible misunderstanding.

She gives a low laugh. “I should apologise then, I guess. For being General surly pants I just--” She rubs her cheek and sighs. “You know.”

He places the bottle down on the small coffee table and bends an arm around her. “That’d be nice, Boss-- sorry, General. Still can’t get used to calling you that.”

“You can still call me Boss. Not unless--” She grabs the hat from his head and places it on her own.

He turns his head to look at her. “Unless what?”

She moves and stands before kneeling at his feet.

“What are you doing?” he asks and a smirk grows on his face.

Molly grabs his calf and pulls up the leg of his pants, undoing the laces of his boots and removing them along with his sock. Methodically she works on the next boot, placing it neatly next to the other when she’s done. Her hands crawl up to his knees and then to the waistband of his pants, undoing the button and zipper. She tugs hard to pull them down.

“Someone’s eager,” he says and pushes his butt up so she can pull them off him. He knows that it will take less than a shake of a molerats tail and he’ll be hard. She hooks her fingers in the waistband of his underwear and pulls them down along with his pants. He makes to speak but she puts a finger to her lips. “Shush. Quiet time. Shush.” He gives a quiet laugh instead. The tiredness disappears as he feels his erection grow.

She unbuttons his shirt and stands. “Arms up,” she orders, and he obeys so she can pull his t-shirt over his head, then throws both garments off to the side. He takes advantage of the situation and reaches to touch her thigh, the nice fleshy part he likes to grab and squeeze. She smacks his hand away and stands back. He’s almost completely hard and she glances from his face to his cock, then back to his face. He’s beaming and she gives him a lopsided, mischevious smile.

When he makes to stand Molly puts up her hand. “Stay,” she says.

He relaxes back into the couch and pays attention to her hands. They move at a snail’s pace. She bends down and removes her socks. When she stands up, her fingers play at each button of her shirt until they’re all undone. One step forward then one step back as he reaches out for her. He wants to touch her, be inside her, and the faster the better, five days is too goddamn long. He’s been champing at the bit for this since they left the Interchange but they didn’t even have time for simple handjob. Her hands twist behind her back to unclasp her bra and her thumbs hook around the waistband of her underpants. She shuffles them off and flicks them to one side before moving forward.

The back of her hand runs over his shoulder and up to his chin and this time she doesn’t bat his hands away when he reaches and squeezes her thighs. She straddles him, her breasts push against his chest and he glimpses a hint of longing in her blue grey eyes as she comes face to face with him. Her lips are flush and plump, her face begins to turn crimson as he runs his hands over her behind. One of her hands goes to his neck, the other down to his cock and she leans forward for a kiss, but pulls back. “How about you be the boss, I’ll be the dirty merc,” she says.

He bites his lip unable to think straight, her hand glides up and down his length. He leans hungrily towards her and kisses her neck up to her ear. “How’s your gun skills, mercenary?”

“I know how to holster a gun, Boss,” she says.

MacCready groans and lays his forehead on her shoulder. “Fuuuuck.”

She emits a small chuckle and kisses his cheek then positions herself and slides on to him. He leans into her kiss, his hands on her thighs move in time with her thrusts onto him.

Everything melts around him, the walls fall away and he’s in an expanse of cave, solid ceiling above him, compacted rock walls close and comforting. He plasters his feet firm on the wooden floor to keep him steady as he kisses her harder bucking in time with her movements. A light comes into view at the corner of his closed vision, pale green, like that of cave fungus. Even her peppermint smell reminds him of the candy canes he would hoard until Christmas celebrations.  Faces flash before him as he tries to stave off his climax, friends, lovers, family. He opens his eyes and watches Molly’s face, her lips parted, her skin red, and her eyes heavy lidded. He forgets everything when he stares at her face, forgets his troubles, his loss and even why he’s here. She whimpers at climax and mouths ‘Boss’ at him.  He feels her clench around him and she whispers ‘Boss’ again. The third time she calls him Boss he loses his control and falls too. It’s intense, as though the cramp of pleasure in his groin has travelled upwards to make his vision blur and his head dizzy. Between gritted teeth, he lets out a grunt as she continues to ride him through his orgasm.

They slow their movements and their kisses turn long and drawn out. The layer of sweat between them turns sticky. When their breathing slows, Molly slips off him but remains straddling his thighs. She runs her palms over his shoulders and sighs. “What’s bothering you, MacCready? It’s not just my surly mood from earlier is it?”

He wipes at the sweat on the tip of his nose and swallows before shaking his head no.

“What is it then?” there’s a note of concern in her voice.

He sighs and hesitates before answering. “It’s Lucy, um--” He scratches the back of his head and looks away from her.

“Oh I see,” she replies and the note of concern appears to morph to disappointment, but he’s not sure, he’s never been too good at reading people.

“It’s her birthday tomorrow. Or it would have been--” He gives her a nervous smile. “It was one of the few things we thought worth celebrating.”

He watches as she nods and gives him a tight-lipped smile. “Of course. I understand--” her answer is stilted and she removes his hat placing it on the seat beside them, slides off his lap and pads into the bathroom.

MacCready squeezes his eyes shut tight. “Fu--” he mutters under his breath. His timing for these conversations with Molly appear to worsen every time something came up. He still hadn’t told her about Duncan, he hadn’t the nerve to yet. He shakes his head and gives a quiet laugh about what he might say next time he has a bad day. ‘Thanks for the blow job, Boss. By the way I need to save my dying son.’  He stands, retrieves his underwear from the floor and puts it back on then grabs the whiskey and grey tortoise pack from the coffee table, and heads to the bed. He sits on the edge, wipes a hand over his face and lights a cigarette. The bed creaks as he moves and sits with his back against the bed head.

Molly emerges from the bathroom wearing her shirt and lies down on the other side of the bed, her back to him. “Goodnight, MacCready,” she says softly without turning to face him.

“Goodnight, Boss.” MacCready runs a thumb along his bottom lip before returning the cigarette to his mouth and retrieving the comic lying on the bedside table.

* * *

The grimy light from the ceiling casts a bleak glow over the small room. It shines on the grungy porcelain of the toilet bowl. At least this place appears to have a working septic and even toilet paper, there's even a vague hint of pine, evidence of a recent clean. Molly flushes and walks naked over to the small hand basin. Everything appears covered with a fine layer of mold; however, it’s a cut above most places. Except the settlements, there at least she’s made headway into good bathing and bathroom facilities for the settlers, and can't wait to return to Sanctuary Hills.

She stands naked in front of the sink, not bothering to look in the mirror, washes her hands, and splashes water on her face. The folded towel that sits on the edge of a small shelf is over-washed and grey but it does its job. She shuffles a fresh pair of underwear on and puts her shirt on over her still cooling skin. She buttons the shirt back up as slowly as she unbuttoned it, deliberating on each fastening, feeling the hard plastic slide into the hole. She hums to herself while she does it before breaking and looking up to the soiled roofing above. “What am I doing?” she mumbles. It’s obvious to her that this thing with MacCready keeps veering into unknown territory.

“Almost paradise,” she whispers. Or as close as it will come here in this fucking Wasteland she thinks. Sleeping with a man a good deal younger, still pining for his dead wife. “And me--” She laughs. “Me, thinking what would Nate be doing? Would he be fucking someone else if it was me who died instead of him, knowing that Shaun’s still out there?” She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. The bulb makes a noise above her and the light flickers.

She takes the towel and wipes the mirror. The face she sees is unrecognizable. “He just needs a little Sympathy, Molly, that’s all. Give him his caps, listen to him, and take some pleasure in his company. Sympathy, yes, and perhaps even some tea.”


End file.
